


we walk through.

by transclawed



Series: the sun pressing handprints into our backs [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Trans Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transclawed/pseuds/transclawed
Summary: a long-winded drabble abt daryl dixon, how he grew up, his relationship with merle. i wrote this in the summer and only rediscovered now. slightly implied rick/daryl near the end. enjoy!
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Merle Dixon
Series: the sun pressing handprints into our backs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1421098
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	we walk through.

his hands have always been rough, he thinks. its been years since he was little, but even then, there'd been tough skin, pain. he'd run away, once.

sun hot on his skin, air hanging so heavy it pressed him into the ground, hair greasy beneath the ripped baseball cap. he wasnt allowed to cut it so shoving it away from sight was the next best thing. splinters and gravel were as indiscriminate as his father's hands when it came to pain, but anything was better than that place.

merle was gone. again. he'd been gone before, dragged away by adults, for things daryl couldnt blame him for. but this time he was gone for good. he wasnt going to come back this time, you dont come back from the army, and even when you do, you come back different. you get turned into a grown up.

and so he runs. because anywhere is better than here, with splintered old wood and broken glass, old men with nothing to do but cause pain because they are made for it. his hands shake these days, but they make fists just as tight and full of steel as ever. daryl's hands shake too.

and then, when he's finally out.... he comes home. theres no where to run. theres no one out there who would give a shit about him, and he knows it. the quiet, the pleasant smiles, the motels with real beds and fake people, its too much. it isnt real. he watches the sun go down and come back up, and he cant breathe. the air conditioning chokes him, his hair isnt plastered to his scalp with sweat and fear, he cowers in a dark room because the devil isnt out there. its in him. he can never escape, and so he comes home. he wonders, as he feels the truck roar to life below him, if he'll finally kill him when he sees him. if this will finally all end. he is made of dread as he takes the key out of the ignition, weighs them like his soul, in the cup of his hand. he figures, this is for the best. he cant be out there with real people. thats just not how it works.

daryl dixon doesnt live until the day his father dies.

it is a quiet going. despite everything, daryl has never again felt the same fear as he did the morning he put a hand on his father's shoulder, and it was cold. he's alone now, for real this time. and there's no boogeyman, no final fight, no showdown. his brother, still gone, not a word from him for years. if he's lucky, he's dead too.

daryl takes the truck, a backpack, and what was left in his father's wallet. theres no obituary in the paper, and daryl doesnt know what they did with the body, if anyone ever discovered it. if anyone ever came looking. probably not. probably for the best. old man doesnt deserve to be buried, anyhow.

××××××××

his brother finds him some years later, and there's nothing to say. he cracks a grin at daryl's angry tears that threaten to escape past his dark lashes, because, theres nothing else to say. no ones gonna love you other than me, baby brother, and dont you know it.

he does, and the tears spill only later, in the dark where nobody can see them. laughter echoes in his ears anyway, and he's not entirely sure who's it is anymore.

the air is so thick its a struggle to breathe, and he's looking at the floor, he cant look at those eyes. not after all these years. dont you leave me again, you sorry fuckin bastard, y'hear? next time, ill leave _you,_ with an arrow between the eyes. he just laughs, claps a solid hand on his shoulder, and they're brothers again.

they dont talk about him. merle took what he could, for daryl, and then he left. its a balance. take and give. of course daryl forgives him. he doesnt have the strength for anything else these days. but he isnt alone anymore, and thats enough.

and then, the world decides, it hasnt had its fill of dixon blood yet. things get hard. but the brothers? they're fine. things are hard, but its familiar. daryl is twelve years old again, and every walker is just another fist, another shout, whats the difference between a belt and a rotting hand? but they know survival. they dont have to be good, be good people, to just survive. nah, they'll leave the thinking up to people like rick, people who live. surviving suits him just fine, daryl thinks. if its good enough for merle, then its good enough for him. hurts less.

hell, they even find a group. daryl likes the numbers, merle likes the supplies. its just a matter of time, they just need to wait, and the time will be right. daryl lets merle talk about grand schemes, plans for them to really make it, they've got a good thing going. he'll follow his brother to hell and back, because he knows he'd do the same. it works, it always has before. merle plans, daryl lets him talk for hours, and the days pass. they get almost companionship-like with the crew, dale in his hat and shane with his orders, carl's a good kid. its almost nice. its not normal, and daryl feels better when ed is around, even though he'd never say it. at least he knows that evil. it almost feels like home. but carol and sophia, they make a strange sort of fire burn in his veins, make him itch the way merle does, the kind of itch beneath the skin that leads to broken teeth and broken skin above the knuckles. the hunting, staying away, it helps. it has to.

×××××

it hurts, when merle is gone. daryl takes a step back, but he doesn't have the luxury of being young and angry, not for real, so he takes his brother's hand once again, and wraps it in a red bandana. a funeral fit for a king, huh, his brother's voice rasps at his ear at night. yeah, he replies, but sticking your arm in the fire ain't, so you'll be fine, i know it. and the voice goes quiet, for a little while. it will just have to be enough.

and then theres the slew hot days, of blood, cars, some sheriff who waltzed in, hat and everything. daryl knows he had good reason to cuff his brother to that rooftop but its his fault he's alone again, and he's ready to die alone, if it means he sees his brother again. that doesnt happen, somehow, the man in the hat tells him where to point his arrows so he follows orders. his anger doesn't last, because its just fear. its despair. no ones ever going to love him other than his brother, even if they try to lie, twist everything, act like they do.

he yells at carol, he lets that curse, out, for a moment. he feels himself grow into his father, and when she flinches, he wants to empty out his insides. but daryl dixon, he doesnt do that, he's the tough, scary man with the crossbow and no hesitation in killing. so he doesnt. he leaves, he moves himself away. maybe it will hurt less if he doesnt have to see them all look at him like that. like he's real, like he's part of this, like he's part of them. but it isnt us, its him and them, and he cant let himself forget that, even as rick looks at him like that. its a lie, he knows it.

he's not really sure when he let the first one slip through his teeth. sure, he's cracked jokes before, the mean-spirited and cruel ones, the ones meant to break the skin, those are safe. reminds him and everyone else who he really is, underneath the grime. hes daryl dixon, and he's never been one of them, he's separated. thats how it always has been and always is supposed to be.

but somewhere along the way, he lets one slip. its a small one, the joke, anyone could have said it. but it was him. its out and he collects smiles, real ones, because of him. they settle in his shirt pocket before he can take it back, twist the knife.

that night, he dreams of his brother. what happened, bro, he asks, with all the meanness he's always had in him. wheres my brother, 'cause all i see is him slipping away. daryl is quietly thankful that he sleeps at the edge of the woods, because the tears spill only in the dark, where nobody can see them. i wont let you go, he says. ill survive if you promise you will too.

the next day, he gets to see his brother again, his own arrow through his flesh. his brother is right, of course, as always. it feels good to cuss him out like old times. but before long, he's gone. and daryl is alone again.

carol somehow never gets the hint. she's supposed to leave him alone, but she doesnt. her presence comes along with a prickly feeling under the skin, but daryl decided, fuck it. she's like him, so its okay. he respects rick, sure, but he's just his right-hand gun and thats alright. daryl is used to being used, its good to be useful. but carol, daryl lets her in. he's almost glad that his brother isnt here, because if he was, carol would be right to stay away, stay safe. unscathed. but maybe she's safe for him. she knows. and so daryl lets her hold his hand, feel the bone and muscle, his rough skin. hers isnt so soft neither. friends are rare in this world, and rarer still for daryl dixon, but for once, something feels right.

someone understands. he feels that fire in him spark sometimes, when she gives him that look. neither of them need pity. they love each other, and its easy. simple. daryl would kill and die for her, and she would return the favor, and sometimes in his dreams, he has a sister instead of a brother. he always wakes up with wet eyes from those ones, but thats alright.

he's not entirely sure when the trust between him and rick turns into sweat. the sun in the sky, blood on their hands, they dont have the luxury to think about that. daryl tells himself he's alright with that. maybe rick does the same, or maybe its all in his head. things have been jumbled for a while, he thinks, too. things have been too loud, too much, too much after merle went. true, this time. daryl never felt a knife go into bone that easy before or after, and he feels the knife in his hands even in his dreams, now. 

daryl goes quiet, for a while. for a time.


End file.
